Love on the Road 2015

by Sam Tranum

  8.

  The Manila Envelope

  Tendayi Bloom

  I hadn’t really believed Mom would come, but, standing in line in the wings of the Holy Family Ceremonial Hall – the big wooden room by the library – it’s hard not to hope. Stepping out onto the platform when my name’s called, I can’t stop myself scanning the faces, willing Mom’s to be among them, then sagging when it’s clear she’s not there. Shaking Ms Navarro’s hand, it takes all my energy to hold back the tears. I take the book and certificate without looking at them. Once back among the rows of girls below the stage, I shove them under my seat and slump back, biting my lip, kneading my fingers.

  What was it Mom said after that first awards ceremony?

  ‘That certificate is by rights your dad’s.’

  And, later: ‘Smiling at your success? You glad he’s gone?’

  Like every year, I wish I could swap the awards, the good school, the bedroom of my own, everything, for Dad to put his hand on my head like before, and for him to make Mom smile.

  Like every year, as the ceremony closes, Ms Navarro invites the girls to join their families for snacks in the staff area of the canteen. It’s a big honour, but I don’t stay to see my friends gush together with their moms and dads and younger siblings. Most of them have parents working overseas, but they also have moms, dads, aunties and uncles who come to awards ceremonies.

  I shove my prize into my school bag, wincing a little as the certificate crumples, and walk straight out of the gates. The other students, those who haven’t won anything, are already on the way back to lessons, so there’s no one but the guards in their uniforms, shiny badges and crisp hats, to see me leave. They know me by name, know I’m not a trouble-maker, and let me go, no questions. Robby raises his hand in a wave, but I can’t face talking to either of them today.

  As it’s early to be leaving, there’s only one tricycle waiting outside the gates, and I swing into the small green carriage alone, enjoying having the cushion and sunshade to myself. The boy pedalling isn’t much older than me. His faded t-shirt is speckled with small holes from sweat and over-washing. It contrasts with the modest front trim of my crisp white blouse, with its small white buttons and gathered sleeves. The boy’s skin is dark and pockmarked, and his calf muscles tense and loosen like machines as his feet work the pedals along one of Metromanila’s big residential highways to our building. Down the back of his right leg, amidst the dust, the pink scarring of old insect bites, and the scattered adolescent hair, is the word ‘J E S U S’, in the uneven black of a street tattoo.

  From where I sit, to his right, below and behind, I can just make out his profile: his lashes and his soft stubble. The set of his mouth is thoughtful, but his eyes seem unfocussed. His mind must be elsewhere. I wonder where he lives.

  Rather than be dropped off directly at home, I tell him to stop at the noodle bar. I give him a handful of pesos and go in. Ordering up pancit molo, I sit on one of the tall stools at the bar, where I can watch the American actors and actresses on the TV screen, their moving mouths at odds with the love ballads droning overhead. The pleats of my blue college skirt stretch across my thighs, and I surprise myself by undoing the top buttons of my blouse, which feels tighter than usual around my throat. I trace the fake wood pattern in the countertop with my finger as I wait for my soup.

  A man comes in and sits at the next stool. His skin and face are Filipino, but he holds himself like a foreigner: easy, filling his territory. His hair is just long enough to have that tousled look and his skin is smooth and shaven He has the smallest of lines at the corners of his eyes and in his forehead. It makes him look interesting, like he knows more than the teenage boys you meet, but he still isn’t old. As he settles, a waft of foreign aftershave passes over the rich food smells of the shop. His blue suit jacket is made of that material that always seems ironed. The heavy-looking buttons are golden. He wears a pale blue shirt, with the collar undone. He asks the owner for pork-dumpling soup and turns to me, leaning over.

  ‘You can’t beat homemade pancit molo.’

  It feels like I’m in a film. On a normal day, I’d probably be embarrassed if a strange man sat down next to me and started to talk. But my mind’s still fuzzy from what happened at the ceremony, and I feel like playing along. When he asks where I work, his voice has that smooth, regular American sound to it. My cheeks get warm because he thinks I’m mature enough to be working. They burn a little deeper as I follow his eyes to the college crest on my blouse, glad I opened the buttons. I lie that I’m in the final year. When my soup comes, I don’t know whether to wait for him before starting. I don’t want to presume we’re eating together, so I take up the spoon.

  The soup’s salty and sharp, helping a little against the intense heat of the shop. Leaning over the steaming bowl, I notice the sweat droplets forming between my breasts. The man moves his stool a little closer. It’s only a centimetre or so but it feels significant.

  ‘I’m Michael,’ he says. ‘You?’

  I don’t know how to respond. The shop owner arrives and slides the man’s soup across the counter to him. Michael reaches forward, taking a thick, rough-cut noodle that’s escaping down the side of the bowl with his fingers. Letting drips fall, he brings it towards himself, lowering it into his mouth. I can’t say anything at all. I can’t look away.

  Finally, I say, ‘Teresa Lee. My name, sir. It’s Teresa Lee.’

  And I watch his face.

  He doesn’t seem to disapprove and it feels good to think I’ve pleased him.

  Soup finished, I’m still pulling my spoon over the dregs, cupping the bowl. Michael turns to face me and slides his hand over, touching the back of my wrist. His hand is surprisingly small and childlike. The fingers are short, the nails stubby. I find myself staring at it.

  He looks embarrassed.

  ‘Pardon me, ma’am, but could we meet again?’

  Without waiting for an answer, he puts a business card on the counter between us, with his other hand. A real business card. Then he pays for both soups and smiles right into my eyes.

  ‘Call me,’ he says.

  And leaves.

  The next day is Friday, and I can’t stop thinking about him, his dark eyes, the way his brows curve, the feel of his small fingers touching mine. It takes all the way to the early evening to gather the courage to call him. I lay the card on the table in the hallway.

  MICHAEL FERNANDEZ

  BUSINESS EXECUTIVE

  There’s a Manila cell phone number. I lift the receiver. Mom’s lying on the couch in the next room. José is down the hall. I almost hang up when Michael answers. But I stop myself. He sounds happy to hear from me and, feeling my face getting red again, I’m glad we’re separated by telephone wires.

  He tells me to meet him the next day, at the entrance to Rizal Park in the Intramuros part of the city, so we can get to know each other. I haven’t been there since I went with Dad as a little kid. I haven’t ventured as far as the Old City since then. I try not to sound nervous as he explains about the LRT stop, and I work hard to remember the directions.

  The next day, I panic about what to wear, finally settling on jeans and a T-shirt. I set out early to avoid the crush of people. It’s only when I arrive that it hits me that my brother’s never been here, where his namesake, José Rizal, breathed his last breaths and became a national hero. Part of me feels guilty, wishing I’d brought him along. But at the same time, I’m glad I didn’t.

  For José, it’s different. He doesn’t remember when Mom used to smile. All he knows is the mausoleum with closed windows and air conditioning, which feels dark and dead. For José, that life’s normal. He probably wouldn’t even recognise Dad if he walked right in the door. To be honest, I’ve always been kind of jealous of him for that. I’m thinking about all this when Michael comes around the very corner he’d said he would. And I’m back in the same film as before.

  He smiles with eyes that have seen the world. Taking my hand, he lead
s me around the park, pointing things out. He knows so much, has read so much. It’s amazing. As we’re walking, I talk more about my family, about Dad.

  ‘How’d you like to come to New York yourself?’

  My breath catches. I daren’t believe I’m hearing right. This really is like being in a film.

  ‘I know a family out there, right in Central Park, near the Statue of Liberty, that needs someone to mind their two little boys, help them with their homework, do a bit of dusting. Look, sorry if it’s out of place, but if that’s something that might interest you, they need someone quickly. I can put in a word.’

  We’re walking on the tarmac area between the buildings of the park, where you could imagine the rallies and speeches from history class. It’s there, by the national monument, with the flowers blooming and all the people strolling back and forth, that he turns to me. He looks younger. Nervous. He strokes my chin gently, lifting it, and before I know what’s happening, he kisses me gently on the lips. I feel dizzy.

  Then, with his face still close, he adds: ‘If I’m honest, it’s selfishness. I’d love you to come to New York. There’s so much I could show you there.’

  I feel so many things it is hard to understand. It’s less than forty-eight hours since we met, but my world has swung in a way I could never have imagined, and it can’t swing back. My mind is full of pictures of Dad so happy to see me and of me telling José all the things that I’ve done and seen. I imagine holding hands with Michael, walking through the pictures on the postcards Dad stopped sending years ago.

  Exploding through everything, though, making everything else faded or black-and-white is the feeling in my chest of his lips on mine. Nothing’s quite real. Nothing has consequences. I know that this is what love must feel like.

  The next day is Sunday and Father Patrice is talking to his flock over the shuffling of hand fans and the crying of a baby in the back. I’m not quite sure why I came. Mom gradually stopped bringing José to church ages ago, and it’s probably been two Christmases since we’ve been, the three of us, as a family.

  ‘We mustn’t wait for the Lord to speak with words,’ Father Patrice declares. ‘He may send us a messenger or give us a sign. We mustn’t be afraid. God is all-encompassing. Brothers and sisters we must believe in that love. We must follow it.’

  As Father Patrice is talking, all I can think of are the Bible stories of people who leave their homes to follow messengers. The congregation stands for the hymn. It is ‘Love Divine’. And I stand with them. I open and close my mouth like a fish. Perhaps I sing, but I don’t notice. I know now I’m making the right decision.

  *

  The driver revs, frustrated at the Monday-afternoon Manila traffic. Behind, my right temple flattened against the window, I gaze absently through the dusk. Outside, the red smile of the Jollibee’s Bee welcomes post-work burger-grabbers. I let my jaw hang, not knowing what to feel. Beside me, the man’s aftershave smells no less exotic than when I first smelt it. We’re no longer holding hands. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  The lights change. The taxi pulls away, wooden rosary clacking against the rear-view mirror, crucifix hanging askew like a misshapen kiss. Outside, Mother Mary stands twenty feet tall, wrapped in multi-coloured blinking lights. Her face is impassive, her hands outstretched. She’s making sure that everything is okay. Behind her is some military building. On either side, ornamental plinths display ornamental mounted guns. I turn my eyes to my hands, palms down, resting on my school bag. I can’t quite believe that less than half an hour ago I was at home. It feels like a thousand years.

  Mom said nothing when I left. Nothing. When I told her where I was going she didn’t even sit up from the mattress. Tears dribbled down her face. Useless. We didn’t hug. I don’t quite know what I expected, but it wrong-footed me. I figure Mom’s probably still lying there while I sit slumped and small in the back of a white cab, her only daughter, telling myself I’m making the right decision. I have made the right decision.

  José’ll probably arrive home about now from some sports practice or other. What’ll Mom tell him? Probably she’ll say nothing at all, like when Dad left. I wish I’d known how to tell him myself.

  In the car, Michael still isn’t looking at me and I turn again to the window. The city outside already feels far away, as I catch glimpses of lives being lived in a poor stretch of town. By the roadside, a pregnant woman leans against a scraggly tree trunk, right hand protecting her swollen belly, left laying, palm out, across her face. Behind her, a father combs a small child’s hair, while three others bounce on the bare branch of the sparse city tree: a family, together. Not much further on, a group of construction workers sit outside a noodle shop, white bowls in strong left hands, right hands gesticulating, scooping food and resting on tables. Above them, a sign flickers with pictures of dumplings. Today must be a celebration. They can’t be on more than 200 pesos a day, and that place probably cost at least forty.

  A dull pop brings me back to the taxi, and I catch the driver using his tongue to gather the pink aftermath of bubblegum from his lips, and then continuing to chew. I hadn’t noticed his chewing before, but now it squelches loudly behind the grainy fizzle of American pop music. I study his face in the mirror, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. Between the strings of brown beads, the muscles of his jaw work the gum in an endless, unproductive effort. Emerging behind him, the mirror shows the sleeve of Michael’s suit jacket.

  Outside, through the window, the multi-carriageway joins the highway and our battered white taxi rises above the city, onto the overpass. The blinking lights of a plane move steady overhead. Not far now. Outside, shacks, piled high, drip corrugated metal roofs, and bedraggled clothing hangs to dry. Points of light glow out of the gloom of the now-gathered dusk. I imagine Mom, a country girl, eighteen years old, leaving the open air of the paddy to join her husband in those grimy shacks that grow like plaque between the districts of the city. I think of Michael. But I don’t turn from the window.

  On a large billboard, a fat man, fifteen metres tall in his chef ’s hat, licks his lips, surrounded by blackened meat, under the orange-and-black inscription ‘Gerry’s Grill … meat for everyone!’ Another up-lit poster, several stories high, proclaiming ‘Manhattan Garden City’, rises above the dirty grey of real life below.

  Without ceremony, the shacks subside, replaced again by the apartment blocks of the families of overseas Filipino workers, ‘OFWs’. This neighbourhood looks more like mine. McDonald’s, Jollibees, Dairy Queen, and KFC fill the district with the red lights of progress and money from abroad. Behind the many windows, incomplete families are cooking and doing homework and waiting for letters, phone calls, emails and money from far away.

  The taxi dives down from the overpass into a tunnel. Michael continues to sit beside me. I try to understand his silence. Without the city to focus on, my hair prickles. My ears are now filling with the whoosh of the tunnel. My mind still feels empty and full, like when you’re a kid and you put too much rice in your mouth, so you can’t swallow. The tunnel glows sparse yellow.

  A decorated jeepney passes. In the back, visible through the open doors, a blue-ribboned girl sleeps, slung forward and prone across her father’s lap. Although the van is full, the pair are in a separate world; the father’s hand, protective, rests between the child’s shoulder blades. The jeepney bounces in a pothole, but still she sleeps, in complete trust, across his knees.

  I realise I wish me and Michael were still holding hands. It had been reassuring. But something stops me from reaching across.

  Leaving the tunnel, the taxi manoeuvres off the main road. It putters to a halt in an isolated corner of a vast car park. Overhead, an airplane climbs, shrinking until it is just the blipping of its wing lights.

  The driver steps from the car and leans back against the closed door, lighting a cigarette.

  Michael takes a manila envelope from his inside pocket, unfolding it. He places it on the seat between us. It takes me a few second
s to realise it’s a signal, and I hand him the roll of bills without looking at his face. It’s the money I took from the bank account Dad set up, the ‘university account’. I dug the paperwork from the desk drawers Saturday night after getting back from the Old City. Mom didn’t even notice.

  I’m embarrassed to hand it over at first. It’s nowhere near enough to cover everything but, on Saturday, Michael had been so happy when I’d said I would come that he’d hugged me and reassured me that I could easily pay off the rest with my first pay cheques. He’d laughed when I’d said I felt bad taking the money meant for José.

  ‘You’ll fill the account ten times over with dollars, long before José finishes school.’

  Now, I’m worried he’ll have changed his mind. That he’ll be cross.

  But he isn’t. He takes the money, counts it and puts it in his inside pocket. He doesn’t say anything. I don’t know what to do, so I turn my attention back down at my hands.

  Michael touches my arm. I flinch. It’s a gentle touch but it doesn’t feel how I expected. In the back seat, the intimacy is stifling. I shift my weight slightly and look between the scuffed plastic back of the seat in front me and my knitted fingers. It doesn’t feel like it did in the Old City.

  ‘When you arrive, you’ll be met by Mr Tang. He’s the one you’ll be working for. I’ve got to finish some business here first.’

  It’s the first time he’s spoken since we got in the car. His voice sounds foreign and smooth like before. Each word hangs in the air, weighted evenly. I’d assumed we’d be travelling together. I don’t ask how I’ll recognise Mr Tang. If I speak, I might break down. I don’t acknowledge his words at all. Instead, I’m desperately thinking of the weekend, of his smile. The only thing that’s the same is the feeling of being in a film.